Imitation Schmimitation
by Blank Personality
Summary: Shawn Spencer's work has enough similarities to a certain consulting detective's that it was absurd to think that no one would take notice. Includes slash undertones but it's all subjective. ((Wrote this two years ago wahey))
1. Cali's a long way

"Hey uh, you're that new kid that just moved in, right?"

Shawn watched said new neighbor in amusement, almost giggling when squinted brown eyes had to take a while to register what they're taking in.

"Yes," the new kid drawled. "And… why are you sitting on top of my fence?"

"Correction! It's actually _our_ fence since it separates both our houses. "My name's Shawn. What's yours?"

Shawn dangled his head upside-down from his cat-like perch, watching with a smile as his soon-to-be new friend slowly closes his book _(textbook for the semester after! We're going to be in the same class together!)_ and put it down. He stood up and approached Shawn carefully like he was a wild animal that should be treated with caution.

Eventually though the kid, with his dark hair, eyes and milk chocolate-colored skin, stuck his hand up towards Shawn like a grown up would. Shawn simply stared at the hand for a moment before tentatively wrapping his fingers around it like how his father would to other adults (strangers) at times.

"Burton Guster."

Shawn grinned a grin that was practically predatory, or close enough. To Burton Guster however, it looked completely harmless, if playful. "I'm gonna call you Gus, alright? Now, wanna be friends?"

They shook on it.

XXX

Shawn juggled a large, fresh-looking pineapple in one hand while the other wrestled with his jacket pocket. He grinned and held his prize up triumphantly – an insistently ringing phone.

"Shawn Spencer speaking, psychic detective and consultant to the Santa Barbara police department; how may I See for you today?" he said unabashedly, pinning his phone to his ear with the help of his shoulder. In his now free hand he picked up another pineapple, this one smaller but looking significantly brighter, and started to weigh the two up against each other.

"Really Shawn?" Juliet snorted, her own phone held in a similar position as she used both hands to sift through paperwork. "Modesty's still a specialty of yours, I see."

"Ah what can I say? It's a part of my charm."

In the end, Shawn shrugged a one-shouldered shrug to himself and dumped both pineapples into his shopping cart.

"So, why're you calling? Chief Vick's the one who has me on speed dial and all so… Not a case, is it?"

"No case," Julliette confirmed, "but I thought… you know, maybe, you'd like to have lunch together sometime? With Gus and Lassie – I mean Lassiter – too, if you want. I mean, what am I thinking of course you want them with us, I mean, um –"

"That sounds awesome Jules," Shawn said faintly, a grimace having worked its way across his face. Their breakup, which was five weeks ago now, had no shouting in it, no violence or anger or tears. It was simply the both of them, admitting that they should maybe see other people before making anything too serious, and then walking their own ways like grown-ups. Doesn't mean it's not still a tender spot though. "I'll check up with Gus and then maybe, lunch tomorrow? At one? Anywhere you want."

"Yeah, one o'clock sounds great. How about the café near HQ?

"Will do ma'am. And, uh, Jules?"

"Yeah?"

Shawn smiled softly. Even though they were still a bit awkward around each other, they were still friends. Good friends. And that was a lot more than he could have ever hoped for.

"Thank you."

There was a pause, and when Juliet answer this time, Shawn could practically _hear_ the smile in her voice. "See you soon, Shawn."

He hung up.

"Police or soldier?"

"Whoah!" Shawn jumped back, almost toppling over his cart in the process. In front of him, short and dark-haired, dressed in jeans and an 'I-heart-NY' T-shirt, was a man he swear hadn't been there a second ago.

"Oh I'm sorry!" the man stuttered, looking concerned and a tad bit sheepish. Shawn looked him over. "I didn't mean to surprise you. I just have that effect on people sometimes. My friends always tell me – uh, um, sorry, I'm blabbering, aren't I?"

"No it's fine," Shawn rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the goose bumps that had risen there. There was something wrong with this dude. "Welcome to America, by the way."

There was a distinct lack of any kind of surprise on the other's face, only amusement and a faint trail of frustration and disappointment. The latter were all well hidden, but still were there. "It's the accent isn't it?" he sighed, hanging his head and looking thoroughly upset. "I can never do a good American."

"Nah, your accent's pretty good," Shawn offered. "If it makes you feel any better, _it wasn't your voice that gave you away_ ," he tried an Irish accent at the end. Shawn messed it up badly, of course, but it sort of didn't matter, as the man was laughing anyways. He stuck his hand up for a shake, then lowered his voice. "Shawn Spencer, psychic. How's your boyfriend?"

This time, surprise was definitely there. His doe eyes widened almost to comical proportions, and contrasted sharply against his beet-red face. "Jim… How did you – Wait, _psychic_?" Somewhere between _you_ and _wait_ , understanding dawned on his face that made something inside Shawn dare to hope for a bit, before the understanding was drowned out by incredulity and disappointment. And the hope was gone. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am sir, that I can assure you," Shawn absently pushed his cart out of the way and made an exaggerated bow. Straightening up, he put his middle and index fingers to his temple, making what he was now ready to dub his 'vision' face. "Or else, how could I possibly know that you're here not as a tourist, but on work, you have a certain liking, nay – fascination towards fairytales, particularly the truly Grimm ones and that you like… apples?"

The man – Jim straightened up to fully face him. Now, his face was set and serious. Shawn thought he might've seen his eyes flash dangerously for a moment and made him have to fight to keep any falters out of his expression. "The same way I know that your girlfriend – but not you – work for the SBPD. You're right handed, good with a gun but doesn't have one. You grew up with a cop too, likely a parent who wanted you to follow in their footsteps. And –" Jim inhaled and gave an exaggerated 'disgusted' face. "Pineapples. Really?"

"Hey, if you're a fan of delicious flavor…" Shawn muttered, looking away. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. This guy – was he like him? Could he know his secret then?

Jim opened his mouth as if to speak, but then stopped and stared at him. Like, really look at _him,_ at him. His big brown irises flickered, from analyzing Shawn's shoes to the tips of his hair. It felt weird, slightly intruding, but Shawn didn't really mind. To do so would be hypocritical of him.

So instead of just standing there awkwardly and wait for the next move (because what they were doing was an exchange, alright), Shawn decided to return the favor.

Hickey on the left side of his neck, but too large and possessive and _dominant_ to be a woman's. Impeccable hands, cleanly kept and cut nails, but slight tremor… and the fingers keep twitching, towards the belt area. Perfect posture, though slight hunch. Slight tan line at the wrists. Stress lines and crow's feet around hyper-observant eyes (just like his own), which were narrowed in concentration (just like his own, again.) Depressions on his inner forearm where the letters of a slightly raised title had imprinted themselves due to pressure ( _German, 'Grimm'_ ). Sneakers, but paired with dress socks that aren't worn, aren't frayed, aren't stretched and still looked quite unused.

And again with his eyes. Dark, very dark. Black, under the right lighting, and exactly like a black hole. Shawn could barely ignore the feeling like those eyes were looking right into his soul, tearing his entire being apart bit by bit and exposing all of the ugly secrets underneath. Invading. Creepy. Amazing. Dangerous. Interesting.

Then they were moving again, and Shawn's eyes were forced to look back at equally bright, if a bit darker, ones.

"Could you, um… You want to have a coffee sometime?"

"How about now?"

"Well, we both still have the shopping to do first."

"Right. And your boyfriend?"

Jim waves the notion off. "I'm not going to hook up with you, especially so soon after your break up. Besides, Sebby isn't really my boyfriend."

"Friends with benefits then?"

"Are you going to finish your shopping or not?"

Soon the afternoon crowd found the two men sitting on the edge of a small but expensive café, sipping their own respective drinks (Jim's almost entirely black and Shawn's laden with sugar and cream milk and whipped cream and caramel and chocolate sprinkles) and talking. Just talking.

Oh, if only.

"You haven't answered my question you know," Jim said, flipping a white phone out and staring at it for a few seconds before starting to type something in. His other hand stirred his hot cup of coffee absentmindedly. They were sitting in a booth beside the windows. In the tinted glass, Shawn caught the reflections of the screen. A hyphen and two letters. Signature. – _SM_. Must be that Sebby guy Jim was talking about, although why anyone would sign off their texts he has no idea. A glance at Jim's face confirmed the texter's identity.

"What question?" Shawn said instead, sipping from his iced cup.

"My first," Jim was a lot more relaxed now than he had been at the store, though that might just be Shawn's natural charm (quote on quote) showing through. "Police or soldier?"

"You know the answer to that question."

"Not police, yeah, I know that," Jim once again took another tentative sip at his steaming coffee. "But you don't seem like a soldier either."

"Nope, not soldier, no," Shawn leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. "No scars, see?" He spread his arms wide, and grinned. "You said I wasn't working for the police –"

"I did, and I fairly certain you're not."

" – well, I'm not. I work _with_ the police. There's a difference. I'm a…" Shawn leaned in close, and gestured for Jim to do the same (which was promptly ignored), as if the next words were some unspoken secret that were exclusive to the two of them only. Jim fought the urge to snort in amusement, "…consultant detective. Got it all by myself. I invented the job."

Jim was quiet after that. Real quiet. "Shawn?" he finally said. Neither of them questioned when and why Jim had started calling his first name.

"Yeaah?" the straw never moved from its place between Shawn's lips. The little chiming bell above the door rang.

"The woman that just walked in, blonde, tall, red blouse," Jim said in quick succession, face carefully blank and without looking up once. "State her love life, family, job, and anything else. Go."

Shawn hesitated. Practicing with his dad was one thing. Taking orders from a complete stranger was another.

But this _was_ a stranger. One who doesn't know him at all, and would be gone from the country, from his life, in a couple of days, if the text he had last sent to 'Sebby' gave any indication. Nobody would know. It would be fun.

Shawn sighed and pulled out the chewed-up straw from between his teeth. He looked up and ran his eyes methodically down said woman.

"Thirty-two, loyally married, with two young children waiting back home. She's a nurse, part-time because of the younger child, who is still a baby. Slightly stressed because of the older boy, who's currently sick. With a flu. Doesn't trust nannies or housecleaning services. Overworked, underpaid, but happy." _Boring_ was left unsaid.

"What is she doing here?"

"Lunch break. The clinic she works in is just down the street, what'd you think?"

"I _think_ ," Shawn dragged his eyes back towards his companion and swore he felt all color drain from his own face. Jim was smiling. But not only smiling, oh no. His shy, kind smile he had ever since their meeting was gone, replaced by a too-big, cold grin that stretched across his face without any regards for any other parts of his face. Shawn had stared down cold-blooded murderers, serial killers, thieves, rapists, smugglers, members of the mafia, members of the international mafia, the worst of the worst, criminals practically _designed_ for the job - with a smile and a reference from a corny action movie without so much as a flinch, but he would be lying (and quite badly too) if he had said that a shiver of apprehension and, dare he say it, fear, had not rushed down his back.

Shawn ignored the part of his brain that was screaming at him to call Gus, his dad, Jules, Lassie, the chief, _anyone before this madman_ – "Jimmy," he said, filing the visible flinch the man had towards the nickname for later use. "Who are you, really? I've already introduced myself, now it's your turn."

Jim suddenly looked weird – very out of place indeed, in his short-sleeved T-shirt and with a soft maroon cardigan – okay, now Shawn knows that he's been spending too much time with Gus if he's using words like _soft maroon cardigan_ – wrapped around his waist. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing – and Shawn had just witnessed the moment when the fleece slipped off for a bit, jut for a bit, exposing sharp, black hole-like eyes and glistening fangs. And the wolf knows – he knows that Shawn had seen.

"Now Shawn, if you want an introduction, I want my entrance to your memory," a cold finger suddenly poked the side of his head, and Shawn's nostrils flared, whole body tensing. He didn't say a word of protest, " _to be a good one_ ," Jim finished with a smirk. He suddenly stood up, sliding gracefully out of the booth. "Come with me."

"Why should I?" Shawn said to Jim's already turned back. "You know I work for the police. I have the chief on speed dial. I can call her now and tell them your description." Jim stopped in his tracks, but Shawn had a feeling – a little psychic hunch – that that damned smile was still there. "And if you try to do anything, there will be witnesses, and if not, cameras. And don't think there aren't more that aren't in plain sight already."

Jim's initial irritation of his defiance leaked out of his stance. His head starts bobbing up and down, his shoulders were shaking, and it took a while for Shawn to realize that the other man was laughing. A deep, dark chuckle that nobody else around them seemed to be able to hear. Jim was nodding too, as if confirming something that he just realized should've been obvious and thus found exceptionally amusing.

"Never would've dreamt of it," he said mockingly, but sounding openly playful if anyone were to listen in. "And also, Shawn," he turned one hundred and eight degrees on his heels, pivoting on the balls of his feet. "Because I know you," he said. "And you're just like me. You can't resist a little bit of fun, now could you?"

And he walked away, out the door and into the streets. In a couple of seconds, Shawn knew, he would be gone in the downtown rush, and if not, then lost in the complex system of alleyways twisting and turning all throughout the town.

A couple of seconds later Shawn would realize that even though he didn't remember Jim carrying anything on the way out (and this was bad, really bad because Shawn remembers _everything_ and not remembering something is just preposterous and out of the question and just really, really, really, _really_ bad) except for his phone in one jean pocket and an access key card to, presumably, the hotel room, in another, there were only the bags with his groceries in it. Even Jim's ceramic coffee cup, which definitely still belonged to the shop, was gone. Even though he already had a look when he had first walked through the café doors, Shawn took another glance at the corners of the room, just to make sure.

Yep, the cameras were all pointed away, only now starting to resume their slow sweep of the room. Shawn wondered if anyone will notice the momentary lack of camera motion. Probably not.

It was like the guy was never there in the first place.

With a pout and the beginnings of a sulk already forming on the tip of his tongue, he slumped back into his side of the booth, grabbing his cup as if it had done him personal wrong.

And another couple of seconds later, wherein Shawn had been sulking about mysterious Irish guys waltzing in and stealing his curiosity so easily, he would notice that there was one evidence of his former companion's leave. A napkin. A used one, stained and crumpled and tossed into a corner between the napkin stand and the table number, but a napkin.

After a long-suffering sigh (and an internal debate between all thirty-seven halves of his conscience), Shawn reluctantly reached over and took the piece of tissue caged between his fingers and palm, then gingerly straightened it out on the table.

Message. A phone number on the top, then the words 'Call me maybe' followed by a winky emoticon and a coffee-colored kiss imprint.

It was signed for SS, from JM. _SS… must be me._

Despite himself, Shawn stuffed the napkin which was maybe not used in the original way he had thought of before, into his jacket pocket, and finished the rest of his iced caffeinated beverage with a thoughtful smile on his face.

 _Honestly_ , he thought. _Some fun around here is seriously overdue._


	2. What would you know? You've never been

Seven-year-old Jim was playing with magnets in his spare time. They were standard, the bar-shaped ones with _S_ painted on one end and _N_ on the other. He had two of them and kept trying to push the ends with the same label together. And when he got bored and frustrated with that, he tried to see how close he could hold two differently-labeled ends before they get sucked together.

He had gotten curious after catching a glimpse of a page of the newspaper he would have otherwise never thought twice about. Apparently, there was a section called the 'Horoscopes' in which futures are predicted, day after day, week after week.

And to his part, it said: ' _The one you are most compatible with will be your polar opposite.'_

So Jim decided to do some research. And apparently, there was his proof right there that perhaps the _Horoscope,_ a weird but interesting find, would have an ounce of possibility in it becoming true.

After all, opposites attract, apparently.

XXX

In a ridiculously posh hotel in downtown Santa Barbara, Jim took a sip from his green apple Slushie, eyes combing through ink on paper as he did so. That Shawn Spencer said he was a Consultant Detective.

Sherlock's words, heard through a bug, resounded back in his head, accompanied with slight static, but very clear. _"I'm a Consultant Detective. Only one in the world – I invented the job."_

 _Only one in the world my ass,_ Jim furrowed his eyebrows. Could this Spencer be involved somehow? Does he know something? _Am I being played?_ The detective wasn't dead, he knew that. After all, neither is he.

The papers – school, health and even a short criminal record – painted a whole life out before Jim.

Shawn Spencer, 32. Apparently a child prodigy, but had troubles with ADHD and other deficiencies that lead to him not becoming very popular with the teachers. Parents divorced when he was fifteen. Father a retired cop-turned-detective named Henry Spencer and mother a psychologist. Engaged in petty crimes in his teens, was apparently the source of a number of tips to the police which lead to the successful capture of criminals all the way from killers to kidnappers to druggies to thieves. Held over fifty odd jobs before finally becoming an official consultant for the Santa Barbara police department and a private detective agency with Burton Guster. And apparently, he had 'supernatural' psychic powers.

So this Spencer was the problem that had been thwarting his and by extension, his international client's plans here.

And apparently all the way to Canada and back.

The problem.

Hmm.

"Interesting," Jim heard himself say, drawing the word out and almost singing it. He had left the fake hickey to be seen to trick Spencer, and that had worked… sort of, but that doesn't prove a thing. He'd been able to trick Sherlock into thinking he was nothing but gay 'Jim from IT', after all.

Spencer genuinely seemed to have never seen him before, so unless he was just a really, really, flawlessly good actor to be able to fool a genius criminal mastermind, Spencer wasn't working for Sherlock. _Or with Sherlock. There's a difference._

"Shut up," he said automatically, then realized that he was technically telling himself that, and scowled. _He was able to trick all of the police, a couple of feds and everyone he's ever met, which is basically everyone who's ever stepped foot inside this town. And more._

"But he's not. Tricking me," Jim spat, face scrunched up in disgust, and threw his half-empty Slushie cup across the room. The half-ice, dangerously vivid liquid splattered against expensive wallpapers and slid down to form a stain on the carpet. Jim paid it no mind. "Nobody. Ever gets to me."

He jumped up and crossed the room in two strides, crashing against the table that held his laptop and phone. The phone was grabbed and, after the quick punching of buttons, was cradled against the side of Jim's head as his other hand worked to get traffic footage from across the city.

"Sebby," he crooned, eyes alight with embers as he rattled off an address, a street, a location. "Caucasian male, early thirties. Blue checkered shirt, leather jacket, dark hair, slight stubble. Shawn Spencer. Get him here. Now. Oh, and he's carrying a pineapple."

He hung up.

XXX

Shawn felt happy. Like, legitimately happy. Or at least content. He had walked back into his apartment to find the living room bathed in light from the TV screen, none other than Gus sprawled out all over the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl perched on his stomach and cans of coke littered all over. True to his word earlier with Julie, he checked up on him.

"Yo Gus! Wake up!" he shouted, hauling his grocery bags to the kitchen. "Jules asked if we'd want to go to lunch tomorrow. You up for it?"

A groan answered him, followed by a sharp inhaled yawn. "Yea-up. Yeah, sure, hu – wait, Shawn?"

"Yeah?" In the end, Shawn gave up trying to figure out what food goes where inside the fridge and just threw whole bags inside.

Gus had a moment's pause before he scrambled to sit up, turning the TV off and then on again when the whole room was bathed in darkness and he accidentally spilled a can's worth of coke into the popcorn, and then the concoction on himself. He cursed, dropping the bowl safely back on the coffee table and then checking the damage to his dark blue dress shirt.

"Oh yeah, what were you doing here anyways?" Shawn said, getting a glass of water. The faint sweet taste of sugar and caffeine was still stuck in his mouth. He'd rather it be replaced with the taste of pineapples. Hmm…

"The door was unlocked," replied Gus simply.

"So you decided to just barge in here like those drop-in characters from Seinfield?" Shawn extracted a pack of pre-cut pineapples from the pile of things in the fridge and opened it, popping a slice into his mouth without a second thought.

Gus looked like he was about to protest before he stopped, shrugging. "Fair enough," he said, and went to turn on the light. "And yeah, I'm free tomorrow. Don't worry about it."

Shawn hummed, leaning against his counter, a dreamy spaced-out look on his face. Gus gave him a weird look.

"I haven't seen you happy since Jules," he asked. "Found a girl, did you?"

"A guy, actually," Shawn said, not even noticing the accidental jibe at the sore spot between Juliet and himself.

Gus blinked. "No way."

"Way. I got his number even."

"Uh, okay, there's something new I didn't know about you," Gus shifted his weight on his legs, looking very uncomfortable.

"What did I tell you Gus? I'm a man of untold mysteries," Shawn shook his head as if coming out of a trance. He took a glance at Gus and wrinkled his nose slightly. "What? Oh come off it Gus, I'm not in love with you." Pause. "Nor am I in love in Lassiter." Pause again. "Wait, Gus. I am not gay."

"Uh-huh," Gus didn't look convinced, but a bit relieved at the former denial, maybe.

"No, I'm serious! I just met a guy who might be a criminal mastermind, that's all. I mean, he did remind me a bit of the Joker… and plus," Shawn jumped around as he tried to find the napkin from earlier. "He _did_ give me his number."

"Yeah, right," deadpanned Gus. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the clock. "Oh crap! Shawn, we gotta go, come on! It's almost time for the national Battle of the Matheletes!"

"What? Again? After the Bee?" Shawn contemplated his chances of getting out of this. Not very high. In the end, he sighed and grumbled. "There better be a murder by the end of the day."

Gus let him keep his pineapple, but not the whole pack, he said, so after a while, he agreed.

"Shawn," Gus started, while the both of them walked down the road. "People are staring."

"Yeah, so?" Shawn ran his fingers against the rough individual spikes of his beloved pineapple. He had brought along the biggest one he'd bought, just out of spite. He smiled smugly when a couple of people openly stared at them as they passed. Or, to be more specific, at the pineapple which was currently being cradled like a baby in Shawn's arms.

"Did you really have to bring a whole one?" Exasperation was layered on thick in that sentence, in such a way that suggested that this kind of thing happened often. Which it did.

"Ah, well see, Mr Guster, 'tis the art of shaming-your-friend-as-much-as-possible-when-he-forces-you-to-attend-a-mind-numbingly-boring-academic-event," replied Shawn easily, right as they rounded a corner and came into sight of an impressive hall – built just for events like these. Shawn could already feel himself regretting his decision to come along. "Uh, you know what?" he said, actually turning slightly pale. "You go ahead. I need to sit down and put my head between my knees until all the nausea of lost childhoods is gone."

"Shawn, seriously here –"

"Yeah, of course Bud I'm serious, just go ahead and I'll be there. Row thirteen far left end, right? Now go," Shawn put his head down and waved the arm not holding his pineapple close wildly, catching Gus a few times before the man had the time to move back. "Go away. You're late."

"I – Holy -!" he cursed. "My seat's gonna get revoked! Alright, Shawn, you…." He gestured randomly with his hands and whinnied like a horse. Shawn waved at him again, not looking up from his 'nausea-therapy'.

Gus wasted no time turning around and running away like he was on fire, and Shawn waited exactly thirty seconds before straightening up and turning around. The coffee-kissed napkin weighed heavily inside his pocket. "I know you're there," he called. "Mind showing your face? …Maybe a name, too? That'd be great."

"Boss didn't tell me you were a genius too," a smooth, deep voice sounded behind him. Shawn whirled around to face his stalker.

Now, Shawn was not short. He was of average height, thank you very much – it's just that sometimes, other people just may be taller than him by a bit. A bit.

But this man was huge. Not in bulky in the body-builder sense, with bulging muscles and a thick head, but definitely showing that he kept active. A lot.

He was tall, too. A large waist pack hung at his side, and Shawn had no doubts as to what was inside. The guy had sun-bleached blonde hair cut short military-style, and icy blue eyes that demanded respect out of the ability to instill frigid fear in their victims' hearts. Tan skin, calloused hands, and clothing that was loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough to move easily in.

A fighter.

More importantly, a weapon-head.

Shawn shifted his grip on his pineapple and grabbed it by its rigid leafy stem, holding it beside his head like a bat. He fell into a batter's stance. "Who are you?"

The blonde man smiled, and gave a diminutive signal with his left fingers. Arms wrap around his middle and Shawn was lifted into the air, legs flailing. His mouth open and he was about to scream but a hand slipped over it and muffled any and all sound that he made. Shawn looked up and wasn't entirely surprised when he saw the blonde man suddenly leaning over him, a small, cold parody of a smile on his face.

Shawn got one of his hands free and swung it blindly, a small prick of triumph spiked inside him when he felt the fruit in his hand impact with something and heard a muffled swear out of the mouth of one of his assailants.

The feeling promptly disappeared as darkness started clouding the edges of his vision. Shawn felt his muscles relax against his will and his body go limp. Cold panic rose inside him, completely useless. When had he been drugged? His makeshift yellow bludgeon slipped from his fingers. The last thing he heard before his consciousness left him was, "I got him boss. Same place, right?"

XXX

When Sebastian came in, it was with a scowl and several small, bleeding cuts on one side of his face. Jim put on a mock-concern face (that might or might not have been less than fake) and thought it proper to inquire about the slight injury. But not before he gestured for the other man to strap the limp form of one fake psychic to a chair in the middle of the hotel room-turned-interrogation room, of course.

"Did you trip and fall on your face, Sebby?" he said, pointing to the bathroom door, where the first aid kit was.

"No. That little prat over there just thought it was alright to slap me. With a pineapple," Sebastian grumbled, his tone making it clear that he wanted to use a much stronger word than just _prat_.

"Pineapple…?" Jim repeated, before bursting into a fit of loud laughter that made the unnamed thug gingerly wrapping manila rope in a repeating knot around Spencer's arms look up worriedly, just in case the lives of him, his friends and family, and their friends and family were in danger. Fortunately for him, Jim waved him off as if he had read his mind.

Sebastian didn't seem to share the humor. "Yeah, pineapple. Apparently normal doses of sedatives aren't enough to put him under immediately. Strong resistance, that one."

"Hmm," was all Jim said to that. He filed the extra information away.

A low groan stopped everyone in the room. Jim looked pointedly at the goon still on his knees behind Spencer's chair, then at the door. The man scrambled out of the room as if his life was at stake. Correction – _because_ his life was at stake.

Jim galloped over to his place against the far wall, where Spencer would have to turn his head one hundred and eighty degrees to be able to see him.

Spencer lifted his head, and that was Moran's queue to step forward, the cuts on his face disinfected and covered. The blonde had his arms crossed over a broad chest, a stern, dangerously calm look on his scarred face. He leaned in close as to intimidate the interogatee as well as to keep an eye for changes in expression, sweat rate, etcetera.

"Mr Spencer," he rumbled. "I would like to ask you a few questions."

XXX

When Shawn opened his eyes, nothing was there to greet him but blobs of color and light dancing around before his eyes. His ears picked up noise around him, but they sounded more like 'Moves Like Jagger' for him to make any sense out of.

He squinted, trying to adjust his vision back to reality. Unfortunately for him though, his sense of hearing recovered sooner than his sight, and he was just in time to hear the last part of what was undoubtedly a threat of some sort.

"…ask you a few questions."

"Wha…" he mumbled, lifting his head higher if that would maybe somehow help. It didn't, but a few seconds later his eyes adjusted back to the light and he could see clearly again… and was met by the stoic gaze of the face of the only kidnapper he'd been able to see. "Whoah!"

His legs pushed against the ground on instinct, as if to try to start to run away, but that only served more harm than good as the chair he'd been strapped to immediately tilted backwards, drastically. For a few heartstopping moments, Shawn thought he was going to fall, and wondered how much of his brainpower's going to be blocked out from the pain of crushed wrists and forearms. Then a hand shot out to steady the chair and Shawn could breathe again.

The chair legs slammed back down on the carpeted floor with brutal force. It took a while for Shawn to realize that he was breathing heavier. The adrenaline rush faded a while later, but he kept his breaths labored. _Let them think I'm scared_ , he thought, internally giggling like a schoolboy who's watching for his prank to turn into motion.

"W-w-what?" he repeated. Eyes wide, voice pitch an octave higher, speech quickened and slurred. Hopefully, his skin looked pallid enough, and hopefully – he lowered his head to make it seem like he was trying not to go to shock – the man, though Shawn really doubted it, won't try to make too much eye contact.

Because after all, people say that the eyes are a window to your soul, and Shawn was pretty sure his soul was jumping around in excitement as far as his soul could go.

"Shawn," the man said, his British accent thick on his tongue, as if he had been saying the name for all of his life instead of just trying it out. "Are you in any way familiar with the name Sherlock Holmes?"


	3. Everything is never as it seems

Shawn was awoken by a noise in the kitchen.

 _That was weird…_ he rolled his eyes in their sockets to his electronic 80's-themed clock. The glowing green letters informed him that it was just after 2 AM.

So what was his dad doing awake?

Shawn fought through the post-REM sleep haze and sat up, the bed springs creaking under the movement. The noises downstairs stopped.

Even through his closed door, Shawn could hear the wooden stairs shift and groan under unfamiliar weight. That was it. The steps were too light and cautious to be his dad's.

Someone was in the house. Someone that shouldn't be there.

Slowly, trying not to make any more loud noises, Shawn slipped out of bed and grabbed his baseball bat, creeping behind the door. It opened, and the shadow that got casted on the floor was unmistakably not his dad. Not that that was anything new.

Lowering his breathing, Shawn licked his lips and tightened his grip on his weapon. Half a second later, he acted.

Just like what he had been thought – use your body to your advantage. Duck, crouch, turn and _swing._

The bat hit knees and there was a crack and the stranger ( _Dad will have to replace the kitchen window tomorrow, and the window panes_ ) toppled over with nothing but a bad word. A _really_ bad word. Another hit to head silenced the man.

There had been a clatter when the intruder fell the first time, and Shawn found the fallen object with the help of the light coming from the hallway outside through the open door. A gun. Standard 9mm, fully loaded… with blanks. This guy didn't intend to kill, or even hurt, any one. _That'd be good for trial._

Shawn kept it with him anyways for safekeeping. "Dad!" he screamed, running to the room down the hall, which he knew was always unlocked. "Dad! Dad dad dad dad dad!"

At 2:17 AM that night, an overworked Henry Spencer opened his eyes to the image of his seven-year-old Shawn carrying a gun too big for him in one hand, and a bloodied mini-bat in the other. This image would haunt his dreams for the years to come.

XXX

Gus found something on the internet two weeks ago. Something that was interesting on an international level. It was, apparently, all the news would talk about all over Northern Europe.

 _ **Hatman and Robin Back in Action**_

 _ **James Moriarty Proved Real**_

 _ **Genius Detective Back From the Dead?**_

' _ **I Believe in Sherlock Holmes'**_

He knew he'd heard that name before.

Shawn closed his eyes and felt time slow down around him. What can he remember about this Sherlock guy?

 _He's in London._

Besides the obvious.

 _He plays violin. A lot._

Besides the trivial.

Shawn sifted through his memories. The guy was good. Solved over fifty cases for the police over there in two years, after that, he's been dead for two years. Came back recently, claimed that he had been working to break down one Jim (and he specifically said, in quotation marks, 'Jim', not James) Moriarty's web of criminals. All over the world.

He had to had help.

There. That was his ticket. Time for some grade-A acting, Shawn, get ready to rant. He licked his lips pensively, quelling the small twitches threatening to form a smile on his lips. He opened his mouth –

Wait. Jim. Moriarty.

There was a picture. Of a guy with a big, giddy smile, dressed in simple shirt and _cardigan, Shawn, it's called a cardigan_ (Gus's voice supplied), dark messy hair, and the biggest doe eyes Shawn had ever seen. His name was Richard Brook, according to the captions.

Not true.

His name was –

Shawn opened his eyes with a little gasp.

"Is this, by any chance, something to do with my little meeting with Jimmy earlier?" he said, searching for his appointed questioner before finding him suddenly behind him, one hand resting on the chair, barely in sight. "Or should I say, Jim Moriarty – Would he prefer it if I call him Richard Brook, maybe? Like, Rick – GAAHH!"

Shawn was cut off by a scream that rang in his ears, that was more surprised than pained to be honest. That was his own voice, he realized numbly, when the initial burn shooting up his left hand had dulled somewhat into a throb. He wriggled his fingers to test the extent of the damage.

"Did you just –" Shawn breathed heavily, trying to get his bearings in order. His arms were tied behind him, the edges of the chair digging into his upper arms. "Did you just break my finger?"

"Mmhmm," a breath hummed itself beside his left ear. Shawn shuddered and tilted his head away as far as it could go. "And I will not hesitate to cut the next one off if you let your mouth run again. Now, I asked you a question: _Do – you – know – Sherlock – Holmes._ "

"That," he gasped, "was more statement, than question, actually, but if you're talking about the Holmes from the news then yes, I do know him."

"Good," the man purred. "We're cooperating."

There was a haze that had settled in his head, which was now starting to clear up a little – just a little, which was good. It's all good. Shawn closed his eyes ( _Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind, a spider, Consultant Criminal, but Shawn didn't remember if he got those last few words from the news or not)_ and lifted his head, then opened them again, staring straight ahead, breathing deeply through his nose.

"If you think that I'm some guy working for him then –" _His web branches all over the world. He's a genius._ _ **You can't lie to him.**_ " – you're right."

There was an intake of breath, then a pause. "…What?"

"I-I said," his breathing was going back to normal. Good. All good. "You're completely right. The guy came to _me_ , a-about –" _(solving crimes for two years, playing dead for two years)_ " – a year – a year ago, when the police wouldn't listen to him and I would. He asked for my help, I helped him, that was it."

 _No, there was more._ Shawn thought back, sifted through his memories. Shots. Camera shots, in the news. Picture of him, the tall pale man in the thick coat and deerstalker hat, turning away, covering his face… behind him. On the roof. Yes, there are people. People who work for him. _No_. People in normal clothes standing in alleyways and talking to phones. They're not working for Sherlock. _Somebody's looking out for him._

"I swear."

"Oh." There was a strange undertone in the man's voice now. Shawn would later recognize it as something he'd rarely thought about in relevance to anything else other than strange unidentifiable goop and bad wine. Disgust.

Beats of silence. The man was still standing behind him, out of sight, his presence heavy and crushing. Then, he stepped back into view. His chiseled face was stoic, unreadable. Shawn didn't allow himself to hope. Oh man. He hadn't thought this far through. They're going to kill him now, aren't they? Just like all the badass villains in movies. He's going to be killed as an unnamed victim at the end of an interrogation.

"You're lying."

Shawn's head snapped back from the sudden force of the blow. His vision blacked out for a while and when he came through, his jaw throbbed like hell. A quick movement check told him it wasn't fractured or dislocated though, thank god.

Okay. Backtrack. Recheck. What to do, what to do?

"Alright, alright, fine. You got me," Shawn breathed a loud sigh, setting his jaw firmly with a wince, and looked up. At least now the bastard he was playing twenty questions with was standing where he could see him. "I have seen Sherlock Holmes. In the BBC news, in newspapers, on the net, yes. Where else?"

"You've met him."

"Never once."

This time, a solid punch to his solar plexus left Shawn wheezing and gasping for lost air. "I'm serious dude," he coughed. "Honest. Run me through a lie detector, I'm good."

"No need," the man growled, pounding a fist to his palm in an unnecessary threat. "I know you know more than you let on."

"Well, yeah. Didn't I already say?" Shawn contemplated leaning forward to reduce the chances of frontal attacks, but then realized that the guy would probably just karate chop his back or knee him in the face or something. He leaned forwards as far as he could anyways, which, in his bound state, wasn't much. He dropped his voice low. "I know who your boss is."

"I'm afraid you've played that card already _Shawn_ ," a new voice spoke from behind Shawn. Both he and the blonde interrogator tensed. The voice was flexible, rising to a high pitch before dropping low, dangerous. It also contained a slight Irish tilt to it.

"Jim Moriarty," Shawn stated.

"Hi."

The man himself walked into view, decked out in a full set of neatly pressed Westwood. His hair was slicked back, hands still in contrast to the impulsive fiddling of earlier.

"I feel honored," Shawn said. "I've been kidnapped by a number of small-time criminals in my time but this is the first that I've been able to catch the attention of one on an international level."

This Jim was not the Jim he had met earlier, who asked him out to coffee and flushed at the mention of his boyfriend. This Jim was cruel, and cold, with a touch on the manic side. He laughed, the sound sending unpleasant shivers down Shawn's back. "Oh Shawwn, you have no idea," he practically purred.

"What do you want Jim?"

Jim danced around his chair, feigning offense. "I'm hurt. Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe after the spectacular little date we had that I just wanted to talk to you again?"

"Not with all of this talk about Holmes. And plus, you still have a –" Shawn then chose that moment to look around. He stopped, blinked, and _looked_. The hotel room he was in (honeymoon suite, of course, probably the only room in the whole building which has any real soundproofing and a ready excuse for any groans or screams), and the two people in front of him. Realization dawned on his face, followed quickly by mock-exasperation. "Oh Jimmy… Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, you _naughty_ boy, leading poor Sebby here _on_ like that!"

Something foreign flashed across Jim's elfish face, and the blonde man beside him, who must be 'Sebby', tensed. The corners of Shawn's lips curled into a teasing smirk.

"What are you talking about?" snarled, surprisingly, Sebastian.

"Oh come on. The honeymoon suite, the 'most trusted' bull, and planting all of those fake little clues to trick me – you little tease!"

Jim looked confused, then frustrated, then surprise, anger, amusement and mild curiosity all flitted over his face in all the span of the next second.

"You're not working for Sherlock."

It was almost a question, in that unsure, what-is-this-lie way.

"No, no, I'm not."

Jim nodded with his arms folded upon his chest, a slow grin spreading on his face that Shawn couldn't think of a cause for and thus made him nervous.

"Seb."

Said blonde walked forward and unfolded his arms, a tiny needle in his left hand. Shawn felt the prick on the side of his neck and for the second time that day, his vision turned black, and he knew no more.

XXX

Juliet was just enjoying her moment of peace that only usually happens before a big case, often the start of a string of serial murders or the kidnapping of the visiting politician's niece. The calm before the storm, if you will, that gives her just a moment to breathe and eat a snack, to get her head back before it gets blown away again by the natural thrill of being a detective officer.

And then her phone rings.

It was Gus. That was her first clue as to the fact that something is wrong. Gus _never_ calls, not if there wasn't some sort of emergency that needed her (and more often than naught, Lassiter and maybe Henry Spencer as well) there, wherever he and Shawn had ended up in, ASAP.

Hesitantly, frantically, Juliet grabbed her phone and answered it, straightening up in her chair as if the chief had just walked into the room (which she did, a minute later).

"Yeah, h-hello, Detective Juliet O'Hara speakin –"

"Juliet, Shawn's gone missing."

Juliet snapped her mouth closed. " _What?_ "

"I left him outside of Luke Marjorie Junior High because he said he was feeling dizzy or something and when he didn't follow me I called him and texted and you know how he never ignores his phone and when I excused myself I found his phone outside on the sidewalk with his _pineapple_ , Juliet, and you know that he would never leave his pineapple and – oh god, that's blood on the pineapple. _Juliet_ , there is _blood_ on _the_ _pineapple_."

"Okay okay okay, okay, Gus, I need you to breathe, okay? Tell me exactly where you are right now, and I'll be there in just a minute, alright?"

"Alright, alright," he made a sound like he was biting on his knuckles and trying not to cry, and gave an address to an impatient Juliet. "And Juliet, please, hurry."

"I'm on my way," she hung up and looked around while already making her way to the front doors. She passed her partner on the way out. "Carlton! Come with me."

Said detective paused on his way in from a break, looked up, looked at Juliet's back, and was left looking like the personification of "What the heck just happened."

And then Chief Vick walked in.

XXX

Shawn awoke once before, opened his eyes and was met with darkness. For a moment he wasn't able to discern where up and down was and told himself to feel again. Ah. The warm hum of a machine, and a big one at that, throbs underneath his body. That was down, he told himself, just before sleep took him under once again.

The second time Shawn opened his eyes, he was a bit more lucid, and his surroundings were a bit brighter, though not by much. He recognized the body bag he was wrapped in, cool air blowing at his face from where the plastic had been poked full of holes to make sure he didn't suffocate to death first. Shawn appreciated the sentiment.

The backseat, though, was a nice change from the usual spot of the trunk. Shawn had originally planned to be all quiet about it and let nothing but a gasp out, but he'd forgotten how much of a pain his jaw, stomach, finger and now his head _hurt_.

He groaned.

The squeak of the shotgun seat indicated someone twisting around to look at him. Shawn didn't even mind it as another prick (familiar, that) in his neck made itself known, and blackness swallowed him once more.

Third time he woke up, Shawn was in a full-sized bed under duvets that felt like they had been made out of warm summer clouds. He sighed and made to roll over before everything that had happened so far hit him full force and Shawn was forced to open his eyes.

He shot up before he could fully register the soreness in his gut, and grabbed at the sheets before he could register the pain in his left middle finger.

When he did, Shawn gritted his teeth and swallowed the cry of pain that had threatened to boil over in a rather impressive show of self-discipline, and looked around.

"Nice to see you're awake."

"Fu – Hell, ah… Jimmy. Hi."

"Mm, good morning."

The man was sitting on a posh-looking chair not a few feet away, absently buttering up a piece of bread with jam before taking a bite out of it. It wasn't toast, so no crumbs fell. They were in another hotel room, it seemed. Another ridiculously expensive one, as well.

"Where –" Shawn winced as he spoke, his uninjured hand coming up to rub gingerly at his bruised lower jaw. "Where am I?"

"With me."

"I-I know. But where?"

"In London."

"Oh," Shawn felt light-headed. He needed to lie down. He did. "Oh. Okay." Pause. "Why?"

Jim finished off his slice and stood up, sweeping his hands against each other. "I want you to work for me," said he, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. One of the simplest, anyway.

"And do you drug, kidnap, beat up and ship away all of your employees?" Shawn asked, folding his arms over the headache swelling behind his eyes. His mouth was running a lot. But that was okay, because he wasn't quite sure if all of the mind-addling chemicals in his bloodstream was gone or not. He was probably dreaming trippy. Yes, lectures from people and disappointing his dad was better. Anything was better than this.

"Oh god no," Jim sounded positively appalled by the suggestion. "Of course not _all_ of them. That'd be way too much resources wasted."

Shawn re-opened his eyes and stared at the orange conch-shaped light fixture above his head. He looked down and wasn't at all surprised to see Jim, in all of his suited glory, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips like an upset girlfriend.

"Right," was all he said, before bursting into laughter.

 _If this was a dream_ , he thought, rolling to lie face-down on the pillow, _this is the craziest and least fun one I've had since Sinaloa._


	4. You think I have Stockholm Syndrome?

Even at the tender age of ten and a half Shawn knew all of the dangers of a stranger. Anybody you didn't know was a potential killer, rapist, thief. They were untrusted until you could be absolutely sure they weren't, and even then it was always good to be on the safe side. Meaning, not only looking at the cuffs of their shirt, the dirt patterns on their shoes, how clean or dirty their hands are, but also their official records – criminal, death, medical even, if needed.

Shawn was barely able to go through the first step of 'finding out as much as you can' before a cloth was pressed to his face on the edge of the street, and he lost consciousness.

A few hours later he was found bound and gagged in the back of the blackmailers' van, fully clothed and unharmed, but with a permanent wary eye that never really went away.

When his dad and later, the nice psychologist lady that was nothing like his mom asked him what he was feeling that moment they found him (relieved, happy, scared), Shawn would only scoff and answer that at that moment, all he could think about was of how he was just bored by it all.

XXX

"Okay, not that I don't appreciate all of this hospitality," Shawn blatantly stared at the waitress as she served him coffee, shooting her a flirtatious smile which she returned with a blush and a giggle, "but why am I here, really?"

Jim watched in mild interest from across the table. His stare was filled with a sort of fascination not unlike how children stare at zoo animals. He scoffed, but the creepy smile never left his lips. "I told you this morning didn't I? Well I say _morning_ …"

The only light in the room were fluorescent lights. Through the big windows lining the walls (barred with steel close together to prevent anyone from escaping, of course), no sunlight streamed through – only the majestic landscape of a thousand flickering glows of the city of London in the middle of the night.

"Yeah, okay, that part I got. You want… me. To work. For you."

"Mhmm."

Shawn waited for a real reply, following Jim's every movement shamelessly. When it became clear that none was coming, he pressed. "…Why?"

"Because you'd make an interesting experiment," Jim said simply.

"…Experiment?"

"In the name of science, of course."

"I'm not killing anyone."

"No, no, nothing like that, unfortunately."

Shawn released a breath of relief he didn't know he was holding. "Okay… and this experiment would be…?"

"To see how Shirley would react to having another challenge thrown at him."

"Shirley? You mean – Sherlock Holmes?"

"Is there another Shirley that I should know of?"

"No it's just…" Shawn remembered that guy in the expensive-looking coat, all eyes and cheekbones and was impossible to be thought of as a child, and tried not to laugh. "Shirley?"

Jim's grin was like a shark's. "Cute, in't it? Shay Shay?"

All at once, Shawn's easy grin fell. "If we're going with nicknames then I want to call you Jimmy," he sulked, taking a large bite out of his – admittedly delicious – pancake.

When Jim didn't say anything for the next three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Shawn saw it reason to look up cautiously, a feeling in his gut telling to him to start fearing for his life. The feeling promptly faded away when he saw the other's face.

"You look like you've swallowed a lemon," he snickered.

"Why don't you just call me Moriarty?" Jim asked, looking genuinely curious.

"Moriarty?" Shawn tried the name out like tasting orange juice, which he was, and then put the glass down, shrugging. "Too much of a mouthful."

Half-truth.

"You've never been anything but Jim to me, to be honest."

"Really?" he sang, his tone fluctuating like a rollercoaster.

"Yeah. Yeah of course. So uh…" Shawn looked around. A flat, obviously, not a hotel. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I'm going to be part of this experiment then why don't you just leave me at his doorstep? See what happens then?"

"Well, for one thing, this experiment is going to need your loyalty."

The food lay forgotten in front of him. Jim was sipping a cup of tea lazily, narrow eyes watching Shawn as he tried to make sure that he didn't hear wrong. "My… loyalty?" Shawn felt the urge to laugh. "After shipping me so far from home, across the – Atlantic Ocean?" he added the last part after taking note of a small plastic globe on top of the kitchen island, looking out of place amongst glass beakers and test tubes filled with questionable liquids.

"I told you Shay Shay. I – _hate_ – repeating myself."

A laugh bubbled up on the edge of his lips. Maybe the concept of being in London, England hadn't sunk in yet. Maybe the idea of being so separated from all of his friends and family – Shawn's whole life, actually, still seemed laughable to him. Maybe he was just plain coo-coo like that guy from House.

Either way, Shawn could already start thinking of ways to have fun with this.

"Do not fret Sir Jimmy! When it comes to loyalty… I'm a real Hufflepuff."

XXX

Jim did not trust Shawn Spencer.

The man was good – very good, actually, brilliant even – at hiding things. He knew this ever since he found that one record of an impromptu truth test with the one question that the reporting officer kept stressing about: _Are you psychic?_

And Shawn obviously wasn't. There was no such thing as psychics.

He was just really, really good at acting like he was.

 _Brilliant_.

And there was also the puzzling appearance that he had managed to take being kidnapped so well. In fact, he seem to have more trouble getting used to the idea of a criminal (or maybe it was just Jim) actually wanting something for him than the fact that he had been shipped out of his whole country on a mere whim without his knowing. An ordinary person would've fainted several times now. An ordinary person would not be having tea at three in the morning with their kidnapper so soon unless they are extremely prone to Stockholm syndrome. And even if said ordinary person had severe Stockholm, they should be shaking, sweating, and not be able to talk to Jim Moriarty, evil reincarnate extraordinaire, like the two of them were… well, not friends, exactly. Colleagues, maybe. Casual acquaintances.

But then again, it seemed like Shawn Spencer had never been an ordinary person once in his life.

So maybe that was why, the next day, when Jim came back to check on his newfound little pet after a particularly boring job, and Shawn had immediately pounced on him to demand for a phone, a computer, a TV, _something_ to serve as a gateway to 'the outside world' (as he had so elegantly put it) besides the barred windows littered all throughout the small flat –

Jim merely raised an eyebrow and handed him one of his rarely used smart phones.

Shawn, dressed in nothing but a fluffy white bathrobe, practically squealed as he snatched the small piece of technology away from his hand, jumping to lie draped all over the couch. Jim was once again attacked by the mental image of his angel counterpart in his nest on Baker Street, lying on his own couch and sulking when Jim decided to give both sides a rest from their games.

Shawn held the phone in front of his face with two hands with a flourish and then frowned. His eyes flickered to where Jim was still standing, half-submerged in his Mind Palace.

"Jimmy," he called, tone borderline whining. "Will you kill me if I call my friends?"

Jim had never had a pet before. He was still trying to figure out what to do now beside stand in the doorway and fidget when Shawn's question registered through his ears.

"As long as you don't tell them – oh whatever, you can. They won't be able to do much anyways. Besides, you don't even know our address… Do you?" Jim asked the last part for real, watching Shawn carefully for an answer. As tempting as it was, Jim made sure not to underestimate anyone who might be a threat, or overestimate them either, like Shirley had in the past. He couldn't put it past the younger to have been able to figure out their exact location from one short look out the windows.

Shawn's face scrounged up, but Jim couldn't be sure if it was from the distaste of being underestimated (which he wasn't) or confirmation that _Yes, I don't know where I am and I don't like it_.

He dialed a number into the unused phone with an untraceable number, and held it to his ear.

"Gus!" he said not a second later. "Hey, yeah – Well I'm calling _now_ , aren't I – calm down you puddle of chocolate pudding – I'm in London, if you must know – Yeah, James-Bond London – Well if Bond wasn't in London who was – Bond _was_ in London? No, no, wait listen, Gus – Yeah – Yeah – No wait – Jules, how's Lassie – Hey-haha… No! You probably have more chance for talking to me! Julie-ey dad! How are you? You sound… tired – Okay, okay, listen dad… – I know, I know…

"But right now, believe me, okay dad? All you need to know –" Shawn's eyes flicked towards Jim before going to stare at the wall " – is that I am safe, alright? And I know you've been worried and I want to say – I want to say I love you, dad, and don't worry, okay?"

He snuck in another glimpse at Jim, and, as if he had only noticed him now, visibly jumped in his seat. Jim openly grimaced. Why couldn't he just send in someone else to monitor phone calls like these? Ordinary people say such heartfelt things sometimes; it clouds Jim's thinking process with useless sentimental bitterness.

"Listen, dad… I have to go soon." Even though he didn't. "I just wanted to let you guys know that… it's like a little trip. I'm going on a little trip, outside of town… I-I don't know, dad. I don't know when I'll be back. But listen, listen, okay…

"It's going to be okay," he said with such certainty that any lesser man than Jim would've been inclined to believe him. "Okay? Now I have to go… Bye… love ya."

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it long after the call had been ended.

"…Are you happy?" he said, and the venom in his words startled Jim out of his sort of daze. His eyes opened and he stared back at Shawn, sitting cross-legged on the couch in front of him with downcast eyes and a vicious snarl.

But Jim Moriarty wasn't Jim Moriarty for nothing. He plastered the biggest, most insensitive smile he had in his arsenal and snatched the phone up from Shawn's hands in two quick strides. "Yep! "

He barely restrained himself from wincing at his own chipper tone. Shawn, though, had no such obligations.

XXX

Two weeks.

It's been two, bloody weeks.

And yes, maybe Shawn was developing a bit of the British ways from day after day of watching BBC TV shows like Merlin and Doctor Who (which actually weren't that bad) and the news – the local news, filled again with more Sherlock Holmes and his partner-in-crime Doctor Watson, and reports of actual, real crimes that were no doubt Jim's.

Now, not only being separated from his life by miles and miles of land and sea, but also being cut off from the rest of the world was taking its toll. Shawn was used to meeting new people – sometimes not entirely _good_ people, but new people – everyday, all the time, and he relished in their various reactions (awe, skepticism, bemusement, amusement, annoyance) of him and also, though he hated to admit it, their _guile_. How easy they were to trick sometimes (well, except for Lassie). How much trust they put in him to solve their problems. How much he was above them because of his little 'ability'.

Two whole weeks of little to no human interaction was driving even Shawn insane. And he prided himself on being the one who drives _other_ people insane.

The prick comes every day, at three o'clock on the dot exactly (Shawn found the irony of that being around the time of the day when he was first kidnapped), and Shawn wouldn't exactly call these little visits 'human interaction'. He would lurk around the place for an hour at least, _Sebby_ and at least one more bodyguard outside the door, making sure that his security measures were intact and that the flat was as isolated from the rest of humanity as possible. And also to check up on his _pet_ , of course.

Shawn didn't know which was worse – being considered an experiment or a pet.

 _Actually_ , he thought with an mixed expression of disgust and disbelief he learnt from Colin Morgan – _Experiment's fine_.

After two weeks inside his plushy little prison being lazy and at the same time trying not to get too out of shape (he still needed to run and fight against people in the future, he knew it, he just _knew_ it), Shawn decided enough was enough. He was going to get out of his imposed isolation, or at least get a promise of it, or die trying. Or kill someone trying…. There was a first for everything.

"Jimmy!" he stormed up in his most Henry Spencer-way possible before the front door even fully opened. He watched from the corner of his eyes with some satisfaction as Sebby and the unnamed goon beside him tense, the latter's fingers twitching towards the gun hanging from his belt. "I demand freedom! Freedom, I say, freedom! You cannot keep me locked up in here like some animal for more time than today! I demand to be let out of this prison you call my dwelling! I demand –!"

"Okay."

"Blasphemy! Outrage! How dare you deny – Wait, what?"

"Okay," Jim repeated with a smug smirk. "Seb, take him out at six hundred o'clock tonight to that indoor shooting range uptown, would you? Teach him all you know and I won't blame you if you use less, ah, conventional methods."

Behind him, Sebby blinked wide-eyed as if asking _'Who? Me?'_ before his mouth opened to a faultless imitation of a fish. "Wh-wha Jim you can't be _serious_ , I –"

A glare silenced the blonde immediately.

Shawn didn't even notice that Sebby was glaring at him from across the room for the rest of the duration of their little and, unknowingly to anyone there, last, visit.

Time seemed to slow down from there. The hour couldn't have come soon enough. Sebby was late five minutes and that irked Shawn tremendously but when they were finally out of the elevator (which was also posh beyond belief and filled with the sounds of piano and violin) and into a taxi that is called a cab, he wouldn't have noticed if somebody had puked on his new pair of retro-styled shoes (gift from Jim), but he would've probably noticed if there was one more homeless person in a particular street than the last.

Shawn was just happy to be out.

And if he knew then that he wouldn't be coming back 'home' thereafter, well, he would have just laughed harder, with twice the volume.


	5. I know everything

Shawn shuffled along behind his father's legs as they walked through the Santa Barbara PD headquarters, hand encased in Henry's bigger, warmer ones. When mom had encouraged them two to have some more bonding time with each other, this was not what the twelve-year-old was expecting. Then again, he didn't think either he, his mother, friend Gus or anyone who knew Henry Spencer really, would have expected the man to become to obsessed with training his son to become a cop either.

Not just a cop. A detective.

They took the stairs downstairs, into a basement Shawn didn't know the headquarters had. The walls, floor and ceiling were all grey. Shawn's dad only flicked on two light switches. Consequentially, only two lights flickered in the hall – one in the far middle of the small walkway they were standing on the end of, and one at the opposite end of the room, where a sheet was spread taut with a picture of a humanoid figure with numbers and 'zone'-lines painted over it.

The duo walked to where the light was shining on their end and Shawn stared at the target sheet. A clicking sound drew his attention and he almost screamed when he saw the gun in his father's hand.

Henry hushed him gently, eyes softening at the fear in his son's. "Don't worry, okay? I'm not going to hurt you, Shawn. You know I would never do anything to hurt you. I'm sorry I scared you, alright? But I need you to learn this. This is very important if you want to be as half good as any officer out there, okay?"

With some difficulty, Shawn manage to pry his eyes from the firearm and nod, albeit reluctantly. His eyes were back to the weapon when it was placed in his hands, his father's much larger ones guiding his own.

"Are you ready?"

Shawn nodded haltingly.

"Today, I'm going to be teaching you on how to subdue assailants…"

XXX

Shawn had only been to two gun clubs in all of his life – the SBPD underground shooting range for officer marksmanship practice, and the Red Chief firing range in the process of catching the bastard who tried to kill his father. And neither of them could even begin to start competing with what he had just stepped into.

For one thing, the place was clean. Very clean.

And it was also bustling with people. And packed with guards.

There was also the case with the sheer amount of firearms in the place, of course. All walls were lined with them so that whichever way Shawn turned, all he could see were guns, guns, and more guns.

Shawn got the feeling that the place was one of those so exclusive that you could only get in if you had reserved a place, on the exact date and start time to end time, two months prior. And if you're really, really rich. Or Moriarty, as that name seemed to be spoken like a curse here.

Shawn felt more like a simpleton than ever, gawking around at how big the building around them was while Sebby (he still couldn't help but giggle everytime he called the… mercenary? No, professional sniper – that in his head) went ahead and moodily ordered them a couple of guns they could work with.

They eventually came to an isolated room cut off from the rest of the hustle and bustle outside. Three walls and what seemed like a hall in front of them, with two new human-shaped target sheets long ways away.

"Now," Sebby cleared his throat, sounding as every bit of the leader he was. And is, sometimes. "As Ji – Moriarty had very clearly expressed his wish, I will hopefully be able to resist the urge to put a bullet in between your eyes long enough for me to teach you to put a bullet right in between the edges of that bullseye there. I'm warning you now Spencer – shooting does not only require excellent aim, foresight and strength, you will also be honing your –"

"Reflexes, taking in the environment, ability to have a straight head, and," Shawn rattled on from memory, swept up one of the guns that Sebby had taken for them in his hands and checked the ammo before closing it back, cocking it for good measure, "knowing your enemies."

Shawn made a show of pivoting on his heels and pointing the ready gun at his appointed chaperone for the night.

"What would you do if I pull the trigger right now?" he asked.

Sebby didn't flinch. He walked forwards, striding long and quick without hesitance. "I would," he said vehemently, easily picking the gun out of Shawn's hands, "tell you to top waving that thing around before you hurt yourself. Jim did want you to be back in one piece, after all. He would not be pleased if you were missing your life by the end of this session."

"Ah. You're worried that'll lower your chances of having some tonight?" Shawn wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sebby glared at him, but kept quiet. Shawn mouthed a silent _'Okay'_ awkwardly, looking off to the side. Silence settled between them for a few seconds, permeated only by the clacking of guns against each other as Sebby shifted through the small pile he had brought in. There were police, standard issue, military, and common types of handguns among them, things that Shawn were likely to meet if he would be dabbling in the lines between the good guys and the bad guys. He had no queries about which side he was currently in.

"So!" he clapped his hands, unable to stand the tension between them anymore. "Where do we start, Sebby?"

"My name is Sebastian," Sebby growled, turning around with a common-type 9mm in hand. For a second, Shawn thought he was going to get shot. But his posture was wrong. Plus, the gun wasn't even loaded. The bullets lie on the table behind him, scattered. And angry Sebastian though, with his clearly superior height and build towering over Shawn, still posed a formidable sight. "And we are going to start with your evaluation test."

He tossed the gun to Shawn, which he caught. "Load it, lock it, shoot. Your time starts… now."

"Wait, hold on there's a _time_?" When there was no reply, just the beeping of the watch timer, Shawn scowled and scrambled for the bullets on the table. Slide out magazine. Thirteen-bullet round; loading in five is more than enough. Slide in magazine. _Click_. Disengage safety. Pull back slide on top of bullet. Two steps to the edge of the firing range, raise gun to eye level…

 _Oh._

"Who are they?"

"What are you waiting for?" Sebastian, who had been watching intently the whole time, urged. "Shoot!"

"I can't shoot if I don't know who they are or what they've done!" Shawn shouted back. "Who are they?!"

If Shawn had been able to look back at that moment, he would've seen the pleased expression flashing across Sebastian's face for an instant. As it was though, he had his eyes trained on the humanoid silhouette in the distance, the ticking of the clock and blood rushing around in his ears.

"Intruder," Sebastian finally said, voice barely above a murmur. "They had broken into your house and is going through your bedroom."

The silence was thick. A pin could have been dropped and they would still here the clink. Then, a shot rang out in the air. Another. Both Sebastian and Shawn had neglected to use the recommended earmuffs for their time and their ears rang like bells moments after.

Shawn had stopped shooting.

Sebastian flicked open a switch at the edge of the room and the target sheet that was used was brought forward until the bullet holes were visible.

At first, it had seemed as though Shawn had missed entirely. Sebastian was almost ready to weigh in his disappointment when he saw them.

Two, cleanly cut holes, one over the humanoid form's left hand dead center on its palm, and the other right through its shoe.

A slow grin spread over Sebastian's face, undeterred even when he raised his eyes to meet Shawn's own smug smile. The boy was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and was shaking slightly, so Sebastian knew at least that there was still some work for him to do, but other than that, he was impressed.

"Didn't Jimmy tell you?" Shawn lowered his arms. Sebastian was even ready to let that one slip. "I may be a bit out of practice, but I'm good. You can say all you want about me. Unpolished, raw, amateur. But you gotta admit. I'm _stupid (schoo-pid)_ good."

"Yeah," Sebastian got his happiness and relief in check. At least this kid won't be as under-qualified as he'd originally thought. "Best not get that sentence come true without the 'good', yeah?"

Shawn returned his smile.

The rest of the night went along better than expected. Shawn got introduced to many different kinds of guns, including an actual British Army Browning, a short run-down on the common guns found among thugs and the like in London, and even got to try out a shotgun. The weapons felt heavy and awkward in his usually much more peace-keeping hands, but Shawn couldn't deny the exhilaration he felt, the thrill and pride when he manage to get his target spot-on. Sebastian and he actually hit it up pretty well. The tension webbed away and Shawn showed that friend-making charm of him that always flabbergasted Juliet and Gus.

And then a soldier and a consultant detective walked through the door behind them.

XXX

All hell broke loose.

At the first sight of black bullet-proof vests and shouts of "FREEZE! POLICE!", Shawn morphed his smile into a fearful grimace and turned wide eyes onto Sebastian. He didn't need to fake his alleviated heartbeat as the little loud intro Hatman and Robin made startled him anyway, but he did have to force air faster and harsher through his nostrils and mouth. He made it as if he had been pointing his gun at Sebastian the whole time (who was by now with his hands in the air, glaring at Shawn incredulously. Shawn hoped he wouldn't break the whole act), just before dropping the loaded gun in his hands onto the floor. It landed at his feet with a crack that went unnoticed in the whole racket with the whole Scotland Yard rushing into the shooting booth and all. Last touches: Shawn tensed his arms so his hands seemed to be shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh god," he said breathily, stepping back as if his knees were weak and he was stumbling. "Oh god, thank you, thank you, God, oh _thank Jesus_." For show, Shawn touched his palms, one by one, to his forehead tightly and rubbed them slowly down his face; this was also to hide the fact that he wasn't breaking out in cold sweat like he should be.

A medic man holding a little orange blanket came up to him and started asking questions, and Shawn ignored her in favor of gripping his shoulder tightly with one clawed hand and pointing, stammering, at Sebastian with the other, eyes looking as shock-filled and terrorized as he could make them. His head swiveled from side to side, looking at all the officers gathering in preparation to put Seb in cuffs, and at the same time already preparing a back story of his own.

"He – he, that man, that man was going to shoot – shoot me. That man, arrest him, arrest him _please_ , you have to put him away oh god he was going to _shoot me_ –"

He even managed to force out a few tears.

"Yes, sir, I need you to calm down sir. Alright? You're safe now, nobody's going to shoot anyone…" the medic babbled. Shawn actually felt a little bad for him, somewhere behind the major frontal lobe of his head that was too busy reveling in the fun of deceiving. Trying to calm hysterical victims down everyday can't be a very easy job. Or fun, for that matter.

Shawn got bored of staring at Sebastian (and pretending of being scared at him) soon though and almost laughed manically when Hatman sauntered into his vision. Oh, the coincidental timing.

"You," he stuttered. "You're the guy in the news. Sherly, or something, right?"

Sherlock sure was tall. He was taller in person than in the pictures, that was for sure. And was it just him and Jimmy and Seb, or did all the people in the United Kingdom have ridiculously piercing eyes?

"Yes, quite," Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of disdain and light interest. Hmm, not good. Shawn was supposed to be, ah, what did Jim say? ' _A new challenge_ ', not a piece of gum stuck under someone's shoe. "You're absolutely average in every sense of the word," he then continued, which deflated Shawn a bit since… well. That was wrong. "So why did Moriarty…"

"Moriar…" Shawn straightened up and rolled his eyes. "He's a _madman_ ," he said, looking at him like _Duh_. "And a criminal. He doesn't need reason to act."

"Yes, but –"

"You always want things to be so clever," Shawn shook his head. "I don't know, maybe he thought it would give you something to do."

"You recovered awfully quick," John Watson piped up. He recognized Sebastian but doesn't want to admit it. Anything else Shawn can run through his head about the good doctor would be restating what he already knew.

Shawn shook his head, but didn't answer.

"Yes, how is it that you managed to come from the verge of hysteria to normalcy in the span of zero point four seconds?"

"It's a fine art. I think you're familiar with it. It's called _acti –_ "

"You're bleeding."

"Eh?" Shawn momentarily blacked out of the conversation. When he came to, he was on the floor (when had he gotten there?) opening his eyes (when had he closed them?) looking up at Doctor Watson (when had he moved?) who was shouting orders at the paramedics. Poor, poor paramedics. They have their jobs cut out for them enough as it is. Now they're taking orders from an army surgeon.

Surgeon?

"Ow!" Shawn inhaled sharply, then again when the pain on his side registered full force.

He told himself to calm down. It was nothing. It wasn't anything worse than the actual gunshot wound he had to stay with that one time for one night and half a day with nothing but his palm and the enemy's way of staunching the blood flow – with oil rags and silver ducttape. He could stay conscious. He _had_ to stay conscious.

" _What's your name_?"

It was like everything was underwater. Shawn could do underwater. He'd had to almost-drown many times before without a boat, and many times as well with. "Shawn Spencer," he gasped, doing everything he could to not instinctively press a palm to his side and consequently obstructing the doctors from their jobs. Speaking about medical things, he really hoped his liver or small intestine or whatever wasn't bleeding and/or leaking. That would be really bad. Pain worse than kidney stones.

"Alright, Shawn, hey Shawn, look at me."

Yeah, Shawn took the other alternative than laying down and going to sleep. Instead of shutting down, his body went into overdrive.

Or, specifically, his brain did. Shawn sat up with a grunt. Even something as simple as climbing to his feet (granted, that meant a lot of wound pressing against cloth. Damned cloth.) was a monumental chore. He waved off the hands hovering around to catch him in case he fell and told them with a cranky snap that he was going to walk to the ambulance himself, thank you very much.

But he was thinking. Lots and lots. Sherlock was standing in the corner, for once looking at a loss of what to do. His John, soldier, blogger and (he has to remember) first and foremost, _doctor_ was in his element, working to save a life like he had been born to do, and Sherlock was for once the one being all awkward. Good for John.

Everything became a blur after that. There were too many colors and sounds, too many people and too many details to look at. All his thoughts congealed into one massive running machine that thought like a computer – in a code that only he could understand, all gearing towards the same function which is to keep itself occupied at all costs.

He was out of the shooting range and into an ambulance before one minuet happening finally registered itself in his brain.

Also, he saw Seb smirk and wink at him from across the room as he was dragged away out the door to put into a containment cell.

Shawn guessed he was going to visit a criminal later.


End file.
